Finger Painting
by watchfob
Summary: All he wanted to do was paint a tree in peace. He didn't ask for help, or for a new friend. PP short.


"No, no, _no_, you're doing it wrong!"

The little boy lifted his head and turned, revealing a shocked and mortified countenance. He blushed, but quickly scowled at the offending girl who had shouted so rudely at him.

"No I'm not," he said, a bit of hauteur infused into his voice even at his tender young age. The girl put her hands on her hips and tilted her head to the side, a frown adorning her paint-smudged face.

"Yes you are," she insisted. He huffed and turned back to his painting. Stupid girl. What did she know? He wasn't doing anything wrong, he knew it. Just because he wanted to use a paintbrush to paint when all the other kids were just using their fingers, she had to go and tell him he was doing it wrong.

Well, he wasn't. He just didn't want to get dirty. He didn't like getting dirty, and his father had always told him that cleanyness was next to goodliness, or something like that. He wasn't exactly sure what it meant, but if his dad told him, it was important.

"You're a'posed to use your _fingers_," the little girl continued. He looked at her again, irritation plain on his face.

"I don't _wanna_ use my fingers," he pouted. The girl looked at him as if he were some sort of alien. His expression wobbled, and for a minute he looked almost hurt. He quickly remembered what his father always said, though. _Don't let others know they can upset you. _

He remembered the first time his father had told him that very clearly. He'd come to his father, upset that George had been making fun of him. His father had sighed and shaken his head and told him, _George is only looking for a reaction from you. If you don't let him know it upsets you, he'll get bored and stop. Always remember that, son. _

"But it's _fun_," the girl said. "And it looks better."

Now it was his turn to look bewildered.

"But it's _dirty_," he said in what was nearly a whine. "And how come if it looks better all the good artists use paintbrushes?"

She shook her head and walked over to his easel intent on appraising his work. She took a good, long stare at it and nodded sagely.

"Okay," she said. "It is pretty good. But you know what would make it _better?"_

He eyed her warily.

"What?"

With sudden mischief glinting in her eyes, she quickly grabbed his hand and smushed it into the globs of paint in the large palette on the bench beside him. He cried out in surprise and disgust—not only had she gotten his hand all icky, she'd gotten paint on his new suit as well.

"Hey!" he shouted as he tried to pull his hand away. A look of intense concentration adorned the girl's face as she tugged on his wrist and tried to connect his hand with the paper on the easel.

"Wait!" she entreated. "Just wait a second!"

He pulled harder and succeeded in extricating his limb from her grasp, only to fall backwards onto the grass of the playground.

"Ow!"

A few of the other children caught sight of them and stared. Some of them tittered. The teacher looked up, her business of helping out little Harriet Smith with her flowers momentarily forgotten at the exclamation of pain.

"Is everything alright over there?"

The girl turned to the teacher and smiled sweetly.

"We're okay, Ms. Elliot," she declared. The teacher regarded her disbelievingly. "I was just helping the new kid with his painting," she added for clarification.

"Alright," Ms. Elliot conceded. "Just be careful, now, Lizzy. Don't try to help too much."

The girl turned back to the boy, who had picked himself up off of the floor and was looking at his hand in dismay.

"Gimme your hand," she commanded. His head came up sharply.

"Why should I?" he asked hotly. He decided he didn't like this girl. She was too bossy.

She sighed in exasperation.

"'Cause I wanna show you something," she told him. He hesitated. Why should he trust her when she humiliated him in front of everyone? Plus, she'd messed up his clothes. His dad had picked out that suit!

But, he thought, maybe if he did what she said, she'd leave him alone. He sighed.

"Fine." He grudgingly held out his hand, which had been, for the most part, cleaned off when he fell and pushed himself back up off the ground. She smiled and took his fingers, dipping them in some yellow paint. He allowed her to use his fingers to dab at the tree on the picture.

After a moment, she studied the painting. She smiled.

"See? Doesn't it look great?"

He frowned and looked away.

"It's okay," he mumbled. She was right; it did add more to the picture. But he wasn't about to admit it! She laughed, and for some reason, he felt like she knew what he was thinking. He shifted uncomfortably at this notion. He didn't like the way it made him feel.

"I like you," the girl declared unceremoniously. "You're going to be my new friend."

He stared at her in shock. How could she know that she liked him so quickly? It always took him a long time to get used to people, and even longer to actually be friends with them. And that was if he liked them. Most times, he couldn't even figure out what to talk about with other people.

"My name is Elizabeth, but you can call me Lizzy," she continued. "All my friends do. What's your name again? I didn't hear it when Ms. Elliot told the class."

He stood a little taller and lifted his chin, just like his dad did when he met new people.

"My name's Fitzwilliam Darcy," he declared firmly, having recently conquered his stumbling over the pronunciation of his name. He remembered this, though, and worried she might have trouble with it. "But you can call me Will." He decided that was okay. George always called him Will.

Lizzy giggled.

"That's a pretty fancy name, Fisswilliam," she said. "I never met anybody with a name like that before. But it's kinda long, so okay, I'll call you Will."

Suddenly, she brightened.

"Oh! You should meet my friend Jane!" she announced, once again grabbing his wrist. She began to lead him away from his spot and toward a young blond girl happily humming as she drew near the sandbox. "You'll like her. She's the nicest girl in the whole school! And she'll like you too. She likes everybody. Oh, and you should meet Charlie, too. He's really friendly. And Elinor, she's nice too, and Harriet, and Emma and George and…"

He allowed her to lead him as she spouted a stream of names. He really didn't know what was wrong with that girl. But he decided he liked her after all.

The painting of the tree was forgotten.


End file.
